“Oh,” said Marissa. “That’s nice.”
Gary’s shirt, a Hawaiian floral print, was tucked in but not very well. It billowed around his right side, stretched taut on his left. Over the belly, the hem alongside the buttons had become twisted so that a small sliver of his skin showed. Marissa, on the other hand, attempted to keep up appearances. Her lips had been painted a bright peach color, her hair straightened with each strand in place, but she hadn’t paid as much attention to detail as usual. Her purse, for instance, was the color of a funnel cloud, a mixture of mint and olive, yet her shoes were emerald blue, clashing with each other.
“How are you holding up, honey?” Marissa asked. She smiled warmly as if by instinct, an expression she used to defend against her worst anxieties. “Have you been eating?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been eating. How was your flight?”
“Good,” she said. “Just fine.”
Gary shook my hand with his usual limp grip. “Any word?” he asked. “Anything new?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Anything from the police? Any clues?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“A credit card purchase? A text message? Nothing?”
“The detective said that sometimes no news is the best news.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gary said. “How could no news be good news?”
“It means that if something bad has happened, her death for instance, they usually know of that soon.” My mother had slinked into the living room without any of us noticing. “A body turns up. A ransom note is sent. Someone confesses. Believe me,” she said. “No news is the best news.”
“Gary, Marissa. This is my mother.”
Neither one of them said a word.
We sat at the dining room table making flyers. Have You Seen This Woman? $10,000 Reward. We used a picture taken at her parents’ house in southwest Oklahoma, one I’d never seen before. In the picture, she had bangs and long, curly hair. She wore lots of make-up, purple eye shadow and deep, red lipstick. I hardly even recognized her, a stranger rather than my wife. Sara and I had never perused through old albums or reminisced through yearbooks. In fact, we hardly spoke of before we were married. It was like another life that no longer held relevance. She barely even looked like that girl in the picture anymore. Beyond the pregnancy, she now had straight hair that framed her face. She thought it made her look skinnier than her long, curly hair. Her cheeks had become rounder, fuller, her complexion paler. We didn’t have any recent photos, though. We hadn’t taken pregnancy pictures. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to. It was just that we never got around to it.
I told Marissa and Gary the story three times.
“Does she have a best friend here?” Marissa asked. “I remember her telling me about some girl she just met. Becky. Rebecca. Does that ring a bell?”
“She’s our next-door neighbor.”
“Have you asked her if she knows anything?”
“I haven’t.”
“Why not? She could know something.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m just saying it might be worth a shot.”
They were desperate to glean some type of motive or meaning behind her disappearance. Each time I told my story, they analyzed what I had said, what she had said, the accusations that we had thrown at each other. Was she truly unhappy? “She hadn’t said anything to me,” Gary said. “She always seemed to be laughing when we spoke on the phone. Just the same old Sara.”
“We have our problems like any other couple,” I said. “We fight. We argue. We make up.”
“I don’t want you to beat yourself up,” Marissa said. “It’s just a big misunderstanding. I’m sure of it.”
“She’s always had a bit of a hot head,” Gary said. “She did run away once as a kid.”
“She didn’t get far, though,” Marissa said. “Tried to buy a train ticket to Branson of all places. Turns out we knew the lady at the ticket window, an old friend from high school, and she called us to come pick Sara up. Grounded her for a month for that little stunt.”
“She’ll turn up,” Gary said. “I’m sure of it.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t know why I said it. It just sort of slipped out. My mother glared at me from the other side of the table, scissors in hand. “This time is different.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Gary said. “This isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s just life. Fights happen.”
“She’s not coming home,” I said. It just came out of me. It poured. All the grief and shame and guilt, I couldn’t hold them back any longer. “I just got a bad feeling,” I said. “She would’ve called you. She would’ve. She would’ve let you know where she was and that she was okay. It’s just not like her to just disappear all of a sudden. Poof, and she’s gone.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Marissa said. “Oh, honey.” She hugged me and comforted me and told me everything would be okay. “She will come home,” she said, “and the baby will be born and everything will turn out okay. You just have to have faith.”
Mom simply stared at me, concerned.
To distribute the flyers, we split up. Gary and Marissa took by the university, a safer part of town, easier to navigate, while my mother and I took the Dot, searching for a woman who wouldn’t be found alive. It made the whole situation worse in a way. We placed the flyers on telephone poles and mailboxes. We placed them in store windows, barbershops and dollar stores and consignment shops. We tried handing them to people. Most threw them away in the nearest trashcan. Others feigned interest, nodded at the flyer without reading it, then stuffed it into a pocket. Some responded with heartfelt remorse and compassion, women mostly, older, who’d lost someone close to them. I could tell by how they seemed to shrivel when we asked them, “Have you seen this woman?” Their hearts broke. “Oh,” they would say. “Oh, no. I hope she turns up.”
I wasn’t sure why Mom and I were even searching. To keep up appearances, I suppose. A man missing his pregnant wife would search for her. He would do everything he could to bring her back home. He’d travel to the other side of the world. He’d go after seedy individuals. He’d even hurt himself, cut off a limb if he had to, no anesthesia, nothing, just grit his teeth and take the pain. This made me feel less than human. I didn’t possess the same normal responses others should have in my situation. I thought of Sara, yes, and the baby. I mourned for them. I grieved for them. I suffered with shame. But I also thought of myself, what would happen to my work, if I’d ever see my mother again, if I’d ever be let out of jail. These consequences scared me. To say they didn’t would be a bald-faced lie.
Without prior planning, we avoided the street where we dumped Sara’s body. We stopped at the corner, looked down the street, but kept on walking. Too risky, I suppose. We’d dumped the body less than forty-eight hours before; it could still be there, rotting. The smell could give it away. Though, the cold helped. It had been below freezing each of the past two nights. A light snow had fallen the night before, blanketing the street and sidewalk in a thin, white film. Without insulation, it would be like a freezer in the dumpster, slowing Sara’s decomposition. The trash men would come by week’s end, take her to the dump or an incinerator, I wasn’t sure which. I hoped the latter. For her sake, I did. I didn’t give much credence to burial rituals, the religious and spiritual implications, the solace in an afterlife, a chance for the survivors to experience closure, but a body rotting surrounded by refuse seemed beyond disrespectful. It was downright evil in fact.
At a deli we stopped for a cup of coffee and a croissant, a little breakfast to get us through the long day. It was a small place. There was a row of booths, old pictures framed above them, minor league sports stars and B-movie actors, and then the counter, little stools swiveling in front of it. There was an old Coca-Cola soda fountain, an ice cream machine, pies displayed. A short, Vietnamese man worked the counter. He cleaned dishes and stocked condiments. An older gentleman, h
e still had a spring in his step, like he enjoyed his work, took pride in it.
“Hello!” he said as we entered. “Hello! Hello! Hello!” He placed menus in front of us, smiling as he did so. His teeth had yellowed to a shade of spoiled corn, the result of perpetual coffee drinking and the prolonged absence from the dentist. I could smell his breath right away, a bit rank, stale, like an unwashed cup. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Juice? I’ve got orange juice or cranberry juice or apple juice or grape juice. Any kind of juice you want.” His English was irreproachable, even local-sounding. If I closed my eyes, I would’ve sworn him to be just another Irish boy, third generation American, having lived in the Dot his entire life. “I got milk, too. Or just water. Water’s fine. Decaf. Whatever you need, I’ll get for you.”
He seemed wired, strung out on caffeine. His eyebrow twitched, and he constantly scratched his forearms. His hands shook as he handed us our drinks.
We nursed our cups of coffee and sat in silence. Despite being inside, I was still cold. The wind whistled outside as it swooped down the street, like we were in a tunnel.
The Vietnamese man brought my croissant. It was warm and soft and melted in my mouth. There was a hint of vanilla in it, brown sugar, and honey. He dropped off more napkins, refilled my coffee, and when he did, he accidentally spilled some on the flyers.
“So sorry,” he said. “I am so sorry. Let me get a towel.” He dabbed at them, though it really wasn’t necessary; only a few were ruined. “You know Sara?” he asked. He pointed to the flyers.
“My wife,” I said, surprised.
“Oh no. Did something happen? Is she okay?”
I told him that she was missing, had been for forty-eight hours.
“I wondered,” he said. “She usually comes here every day. She eats pie and has a cup of tea. We talk about our homes. The ones we left behind. Oklahoma, right? She had cows and horses. She wore cowboy boots. I think maybe that’s why she comes here. We’re both homesick.”
“She came here every day?”
“Sure. At least four or five days a week. She comes in about 10:00, sits where you are actually. She people-watched. She is quiet.”
“Did she ever mention me?” I asked.
He thought a little bit, as if trying to remember, or maybe to formulate the right response. “I’m sure she did,” he said. “We talked about so many things. You don’t think anything bad happened to her, do you?”
“We don’t know,” I said, and we paid our tab. “We just don’t know.”
“Let me know if I can help at all,” the man said as my mother and I left. We didn’t turn back. “I’ll pray for her.”
We were at the corner of Ridgewood and Topliff, a residential part of the Dot, lined with brownstones and chain-link fences. Styrofoam cups and loose papers were pinned against the fence by the harsh wind. American flags draped from porches. There wasn’t much foot traffic, just a lone man walking south down Ridgewood. He had a white oxford shirt on, a size or two too big, the sleeves rolled up as otherwise they would cover his hands. He walked slowly as if he didn’t actually have a destination, only walked because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Somewhere I could hear music, classical, a single string instrument. It was faint at first, but grew louder slowly. It would start, play a few notes, then stop abruptly, like the musician was tuning the instrument.
Sara, apparently, had walked these streets everyday to and from the deli. I had no idea she used to frequent there, but, now that I thought about it, it made sense. She’d often complained how lonely she was in Boston. At the deli, she could sit for hours, drink tea, eat a piece of pie, strike up conversations with other patrons, the mailman, a couple cops, another soon-to-be mother. What troubled me, however, was that she never mentioned these trips. They were obviously important to her, to keep coming every single day, but she kept this part of her life hidden from me, like if it was exposed, my knowing would sully it somehow, taint her one escape from the drudgery that was our marriage.
“How’re you holding up?” my mother asked.
“About as well as could be expected, I guess.”
She nodded and scratched her chin with her thumb. Since the murder, she had changed her appearance; she wore more makeup, dark eye shadow, deep red lipstick. She became quieter, more distant, cold even. She would stand in front of the mirror for twenty minutes or thirty or forty, just looking, angling her face to the left, then to the right, then straight ahead. She wouldn’t touch her hair or reapply her mascara, she simply studied herself, absorbing all her imperfections.
After a few more yards down the street, the musician began to play a song. Pristine music, a lone cello. It couldn’t have been a recording. It was live, but I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. It was a very odd instrument for this neighborhood. I would’ve expected an electric guitar, a drum set, something a little more aggressive, visceral, not something so sweetly beautiful, so sad, or so sublime.
“I know there’s nothing I can say to make this any better,” Mom said. “And I know I’m not the one that should be offering you comfort. Not after what I’ve done to you.”
“This isn’t right. I should turn myself in.”
She nodded again.
“I understand,” she said. “I do. It seems like that is the right thing to do.”
“It is.”
“I know. But it was an accident, son.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“There wasn’t any premeditation. There wasn’t ill will. It’s analogous to a car crash. The brakes malfunctioned on an otherwise perfectly capable car. It was going downhill. It had too much momentum. It blew through a stop sign and hit an unsuspecting driver. The driver of the car whose brakes went out would not be culpable.”
“That’s not the same thing, and you know that.”
“Why? Tell me why. How is it different?”
“Because the driver didn’t just drive off. He stayed and tried to help. He called the cops and told the truth.”
“Tell me—what would change? Does telling the truth bring the dead back? No! Nothing changes. The driver still feels remorse. Regardless if the truth is told.”
“It is not the same.”
The cello music whined in the distance, sweetly, melodically. It was enchanting. I had to find it. I picked up my pace. I stuck flyers into the chain-linked fence. I handed one to the man in the Oxford shirt. He blinked at it as if he was illiterate. “Thank you,” he said.
Mom walked faster, stayed stride by stride with me. “Do you think Sara would want you to go to jail? Do you think that is what she would want?”
The wind camouflaged the music’s origins. For a moment it seemed to be coming from behind me, then ahead, then straight above. I looked up the street for open windows, a car idling, a window cracked and with an extraordinary sound system, though I didn’t expect any car around here to have this type of quality. Few models do, higher-end, later models, luxury cars, cars not found in the Dot. I would’ve been less surprised to find a string orchestra at the corner, dressed in tuxedos and gowns, tuning for a performance.
“I don’t,” Mom continued. “I don’t think that’s what she would’ve wanted at all. Not after what you have accomplished, not with what you’ve shown with your work. Not now. She’d want you to become what you’ve always dreamed—the greatest scientist the world has ever known. She loved you, Coulter. She wouldn’t dream of you throwing that away.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t try to speak for her.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She sounded desperate. “But I know I’m right. Punishment comes in many different forms. It doesn’t have to be incarceration. You don’t have to pay for this for the rest of your life.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to go to prison. I’m sure you’re punishing yourself right now. If you’re anything like me—” she cut herself off.
I continued down the street. The
music became louder, slower, sadder. It seemed to be longing for something, a song of yearning. It seemed to be crying out for someone to please help, but no one did. I had to find it. It was like it was being played just for me.
“Please,” she said. “Please. Just stop. Look at me, Coulter.”
I didn’t stop. I headed down the street, the music getting louder. I was getting close.
“I just can’t lose you,” she said. “Not now. Not after I just got you back.”
It was right around me. I stopped, looked around, but couldn’t find the source.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“I know it’s not right. I do. I just can’t stand to do the right thing.”
And then I spotted it, the cello, through an upstairs window in a brownstone. A young girl played it. Her mother stood over her shoulder, looking at the sheet music. Her face appeared tense with consternation. The little girl looked anxious. Her fingers strained around the cello’s neck. They quivered and flew over the fingerboard. But then came a false note, shrill compared to the silkiness of the rest. Her mother jolted, cringed. The daughter dropped the bow. This had happened before; I could tell by the way the young girl’s face turned red, anticipatory. Her mother rebuked her. She pointed and censured, but the young girl didn’t cry. She simply picked up her bow, her mother still chastising her, and continued to play where she left off.
AT DISTANCES LESS THAN THE PLANCK LENGTH, light behaves in peculiar ways, ways described in part by Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. Simply put, if we understand a photon’s position, we do not know its velocity/momentum. If we know velocity/momentum, then we do not know its position. This property is called complementarity: as we know more about one, then we know less about the other. Because of this, we’re only able to give the probability that we’ll be able to show where a certain photon is located and where it plans to go. This creates an interesting conundrum. From a macro standpoint, we can only give the probability of where light is located, but as we look closer and closer and closer, we can pinpoint a particular photon, bending certainty toward one hundred percent. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, our witnessing that photon makes it more real. Our simple observance affects the certainty of a photon’s position. How or why this happens, no one really knows for sure. But it answers that silly riddle, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it emit any sound? The answer is that maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s our presence that manifests reality.
An Elegant Theory Page 19